


Drinking Buddies

by kel_1970



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kel_1970/pseuds/kel_1970
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Kirk and McCoy shared a drink, and one time they didn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warm bourbon (Academy, Day 1).

**1.** Warm bourbon (Academy, Day 1).

 

McCoy’s stomach lurched as the shuttle banked hard out of the shipyard. He didn’t want to make good on his warning about vomiting on his fellow new cadet—he really didn’t—but for fuck’s sake, it seemed like a Starfleet shuttle pilot ought to have more control over the damned thing. Or, he reflected in horror, maybe a _cadet_ was flying the shuttle.

 _Oh, holy shit—one of these kids is flying this thing?_ His stomach did a flip-flop. The kid next to him—no, not a kid, he had to stop thinking of his fellow new recruits as children, or he’d never make it through the Academy—passed the hip flask back to him again.

“Looks like you need this more than I do, Bones.”

McCoy took the flask back gratefully, and drained it thoroughly. The kid— _stop it, Leonard, not a kid_ —Jim, then—was watching him carefully.

“Okay, don’t nod or shake your head—just say yes or no. You all right?” Jim asked him.

“No.”

“An honest man,” Jim answered. “That’s refreshing, Bones. Very refreshing.” He fidgeted in his seat, trying to reach his back pocket around the five-point harness.

“Wha’d you call me?” McCoy asked.

“All you’ve got left is your bones, right? Aha!” Kirk finally pulled a piece of actual paper from his back pocket. “Thought I still had this.” He folded the paper into a crude fan, and passed it to McCoy. “Here. You need air. Fan. Can’t exactly open a window in here.”

“Christ on a crutch, kid, don’t even _say_ that word,” said McCoy, closing his eyes and fanning himself.

“What word? Air? Fan? Can’t? Exactly? Open? A?”

“Stop!”

“Oh, ‘window!’”

McCoy groaned, and fanned harder.

“Sorry, sorry. Won’t say it again, Bones, and that’s a promise. Let’s see, how can I distract you? All right, I know.” Jim Kirk proceeded to deliver the ten filthiest limericks McCoy had ever heard in his life, without seeming to pause for breath.

“I’ve got some more, but they’re even worse, and I think the lady behind us has had enough.” Jim turned around and shot Uhura a wink, and was rewarded with a professional-level eye roll.

And for a moment—just a moment—McCoy had forgotten all about puking.

“Hey, Jim,” McCoy said, doing his level best to keep his head still and his eyes shut. “Thanks. When we’re back to terra firma, I owe you a drink—and not warm bourbon from a hip flask, either.”

“It’s a deal, Bones. I’ll look you up.”


	2. 2. Water (Academy, Year 2).

**2.** Water (Academy, Year 2).

“Bones! Hey, Boh-hones!” Jim Kirk caught up with Leonard McCoy as the latter was entering the academy gym closest to their dorm. “Whatcha doin’ here, roomie? I thought you never exercised inside—no fresh air and all.”

“Had planned on a row on the bay this afternoon, but there’s a storm brewing. So much for fresh air today,” McCoy muttered to himself, throwing his gym bag behind the rowing simulator.

“Yep,” said Jim, “I was gonna do some trail running, but ditto. I can take being wet, and I can take being cold, but I can’t take being wet _and_ cold for no good reason.” The only item Kirk was carrying was a towel; he draped it over the treadmill next to McCoy’s rowing machine.

Kirk watched with interest as McCoy started warming up.

“So, a rower, huh?” Jim started pounding out the steps on the treadmill. _Guess that explains those shoulders_ , he didn’t say. “Why didn’t I know that?”

“Yup. Since my high school days. And you didn’t know it because I never mentioned it.” McCoy said, setting a slow, steady rhythm with the rowing simulator.

“Not much call for rowing crew in Iowa,” remarked Kirk. “So I guess it never occurred to me.”

“I’ll take you out sometime in a double,” replied McCoy. “Though I should warn you, you’re liable to get cold and wet for no good reason.”

“S’posed to be a good workout.”

“It is. Most people think it’s just upper body, but not by a long shot.”

“Yeah, invention of the sliding seat in the 19th century changed that, right? Bet the Vikings would’ve kicked a lot more ass if they’d thought it up.”

“Trust you to know the military history behind the sport.” McCoy was getting a stiff neck trying to look up at Jim on the treadmill next to him, so he gave up on looking and just talked.

The two kept up a steady chatter for the next forty-five minutes, until Kirk finally called it. “I can be done,” he announced. “How ‘bout you, Bones?”

“Yeah, I can wrap up here.” He frowned over at Jim, who was just standing next to the treadmill, waiting and sweating. “You oughta at least pretend to cool down, though. Just ‘cause you’re not an old man like me doesn’t mean you won’t suffer for it later.”

“All righty, Bones—for you? I’ll pretend to cool off.” Jim started the treadmill back up again, and set the machine for a five-minute cool down. The breeze from the rowing machine’s resistance fan calmed as McCoy also slowed his pace.

Finally, McCoy ended his workout, and held his communicator up to the machine’s console to log his workout. He wiped down the machine, and himself, and grabbed a water bottle from his bag. He sat sideways on the rail of the rowing machine, and chugged a quarter of the liter. He noticed Jim watching him.

“What, you didn’t bring water?” McCoy asked.

“Nuh-uh. Not practical for running.” He looked around. “Isn’t there a fountain or something?”

McCoy gestured to the long line. “Looks like that’s it.”

“Damn. I’ll just wait till we get back to the dorms, then.”

McCoy held out his bottle. “Here. I promise I don’t have any weird diseases.”

“Hey, thanks. Me neither—though you would know, since you did my checkup last month.” Kirk plunked his rear onto the edge of the treadmill’s belt, and made another quarter of a liter of water disappear. He carefully handed the bottle back to McCoy, with both hands.

“Well, congratulations! I had no idea!”

Both men looked up. Uhura was standing there, a wide grin fixed on her elegant features.

“Huh?” Kirk replied eloquently.

“If you were Klingons, you’d be married now—sitting across from each other and passing a drink between you with two hands like that. Better be careful, or people might get the wrong idea.”

McCoy gave her the eyebrow. He downed another quarter liter, and conspicuously used both hands to pass the bottle back to Jim. “Finish it,” he said. “No point in exploring hydrological applications of Zeno’s paradox.”

“K’plaH!” said Jim. “Or whatever you say at the end of a Klingon wedding.”

Predictably, Uhura rattled off a string of Klingon. “And now you have the ritual feast.”

McCoy and Kirk looked at each other and shrugged. “I could eat; how ‘bout you, Bones?”

“Sure. Catch you later, Uhura.” The two men exited the gym.

“And then,” Uhura said to nobody, “you engage in a struggle for sexual dominance.” She frowned. “Hmph. Wonder who’d win.”


	3. Beer (Academy, year 3).

“It’s rigged. It’s gotta be rigged,” said Jim, spinning his empty beer bottle on the tabletop.

“Rigged how?” asked McCoy, sitting across from him in the booth.

“Okay, Bones,” Jim said slowly, “nobody has _ever_ succeeded in rescuing the crew of the Kobayashi Maru. What’s the point of a test that nobody can pass? I just don’t get it.” He signaled the waiter for another round.

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re not _supposed_ to be able to beat the scenario?

“If that’s the way it is, then it’s definitely rigged. I mean, that’s the very definition of a rigged game, Bones—a game where the house manipulates things so that the players can never win?”

McCoy shook his head. “You’re still not gettin’ it, Jim. The way I figger it, the point ain’t whether or not you win the game.”

Kirk frowned. “So what the fuck _is_ the point, then? And don’t even fucking _say_ something trite like ‘It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.’ I got thrown out of Boy Scouts—twice—so don’t bother hitting me with that kind of sanctimonious crap.”

The waiter delivered two more bottles of beer.

“Put it together, Jim. If the test is rigged so you can’t win, what do you think they’re lookin’ at?”

Jim took a long pull of his beer. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?” McCoy didn’t drink; just picked at the label while studying his companion.

“Answer a question with another question.” Kirk knocked back most of the rest of his long-neck and thunked the bottle back onto the table between them.

“All right then,” McCoy said quietly. “You wanna know what I think they’re lookin’ at?”

“Jesus Christ, Bones! Just say it already!” The rest of Kirk’s beer disappeared.

“I think they wanna see how people act when they lose. I think the test doesn’t really start until _after_ the simulator is turned off, and the _real_ test keeps goin’ for as long as the powers that be wanna watch you.”

Jim made a noise somewhere between a snort and the sound a horse makes when it expels a breath. “Watch me? _Watch_ me? Bones, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You really think they have time for … voyeurism? To watch one lowly cadet? Besides, what would they learn from watching me right now? That I drink too much? Check! That I like to win? Check! That I think their stupid test is totally fucking rigged? Double fucking check!”

He stood on the bench of the booth. “Attention, all Starfleet cadets! The Kobayashi Maru test is rigged! It’s a no-win scenario! That is all.” He sat back down again.

McCoy’s forehead thumped onto the table. “Was that really necessary?”

Kirk frowned. “Good point, Bones. Necessary? Yes. Sufficient? Probably not.” He climbed up onto the bench again, and then, to McCoy’s dismay, but not total surprise, stood on the table top. “And one more thing, people!” He looked around the room, and noted that some eyes were still not on James T. Kirk. He clapped his hands together, then stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “HEY! LISTEN UP, CADETS!”

All eyes were now on him.

“Get the fuck down, Jim; you’re gonna get us thrown out,” McCoy said in a none-too-calm stage whisper.

“I’M GONNA BEAT THEIR GAME, KIDS!”

“Siddown, asshole!” someone called from the bar.

People started turning away, going back to their own drinks and their own problems.

Except for the bouncers.

And the guy in gray civvies, sitting at a table by himself, just watching.

~!~!~!~

Thirty seconds later, the two men sat on the ground, and leaned against the dumpster in the alley they’d been tossed unceremoniously into.

“Okay, Bones; say it.”

McCoy didn’t hesitate. “I told you so.” He took the nearly full beer bottle out of the inside pocket of his jeans jacket where he’d stashed it when he saw the bouncers coming over to the table, and took his first drink from the bottle. He passed it to Jim, who politely wiped the blood off his mouth before taking a swig. Or most of the blood, at least.

Kirk passed the bottle back to McCoy, wincing as his arm, sore from recently being jammed up against his own back, protested the movement. “Well, that’s one more bar on my no-fly list,” he said. “And yours, too, I guess.”

“No great loss,” McCoy muttered. “It was a damned dive, anyways.”

“Cheap beer, though,” said Kirk, as he received the bottle again.

The two men passed the bottle back and forth twice more.

“Well, this soldier’s dead,” said Kirk. “Killed it off, just like I killed off my crew today.” He stood up and dropped the bottle into the recycling port on the dumpster, and then slumped down next to McCoy again.

“Ah,” said McCoy. “So you _did_ think about that aspect of the simulation.”

“Course I did. You’re in command, you’re ultimately responsible for the lives of everyone under you.”

“So, what are you _really_ so pissed about, Jim? The fact that the test seems like a no-win scenario, or that _you_ _personally_ would’ve lost ship and crew if it were real?”

“A hit, a very palpable hit!”

“Highly literate, but doesn’t answer the question.”

Neither man spoke for a minute or so.

“The second one.” Jim heaved in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He pulled his knees up, and laid his head on crossed arms over his knees. “Of _course_ it’s the second one. Fuck, Bones. All evening I’ve felt like I oughta be writing condolence letters, not going out drinking and gettin’ stupid. How pathetic is _that_? Plus,” he added, “I’d be dead too, so I wouldn’t have to do _that_ little job.”

McCoy didn’t answer. He just snaked his hand out, and laid it on the back of his friend’s neck, right where it met his shoulder. He half expected to feel Jim flinch under his touch, but what he got was a slight push back into his hand.

Kirk went on. “I know it wasn’t real—of course I know that. But all I could think about, after, was how if it had been real—if I really was in that situation—shit. So what if I die young. But all those other lives I’d be taking with me? I dunno, Bones. Maybe I’m not cut out for the command track after all.”

McCoy shook his head, then realized Jim wouldn’t be able to see that movement with his head down on his knees the way it was. “Ya know what, Jim? I don’t think I’d wanna serve under anyone who didn’t feel that way sometimes. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Jim made the snorting horse noise again. “Yeah, and you didn’t just hear me say what I just said.”

McCoy squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

“‘kay.”

Bones stood up first, and reached a hand down to Jim, not sure whether or not he would take it.

He did. And he kept it for a couple seconds longer than would really be normal, looking his friend in the eye. “Thanks, Bones.”

As they walked out of the alley, they paid no mind to the small man in gray, who looked like he was sending a text message on his communicator, but wasn’t.


	4. Bourbon, again. (Academy, year 3).

Jim Kirk snuck stealthily and guiltily into his and McCoy’s dorm room, just after 0300. Stealthily, because, well, it was really fucking late; and guiltily, because he’d known something was bothering Bones that morning, but hadn’t caught up with him at all during the day to try to worm it out of him.

“Lights on 10 percent,” he said quietly. If Bones was asleep, that shouldn’t wake him up. If he was still up—well, if he was still up, he’d have the lights on, wouldn’t he?

Jim looked over to McCoy’s side of the room. The bed was empty.

“Huh,” said Jim. He dropped his bag on his desk, and opened the small refrigerator to grab an apple and a drink. He took his snack over to his desk, and turned on his computer console. He was too tired to work, but too wired to sleep, so he settled on watching an episode of one of his favorite childhood shows to calm his mind. It was a ridiculous show, really. The starships were absurdly futuristic, with technology that was scientifically impossible; and the characters were impossibly perfect. As the opening credits rolled, Jim crunched a huge bite from his apple. Mid-crunch, he was startled by a noise from across the room.

“Six.”

“What the fuck?” Jim spun his chair around so fast he ended up facing his own screen again, caught himself, and turned to the other side of the room in a more controlled fashion.

“Six years old,” the scratchy voice said.

“Bones?” Jim stood up and peered over to McCoy’s side of the room. Nobody on the bed, nobody at the desk. “Lights on full.”

“Turn ‘em off, Jim. I don’ wanna see nothin’. An’ I don’ wan’ nobody seein’ me.” The voice seemed to be coming from the floor. Jim crossed the invisible line to McCoy’s side of the room.

“Jesus, Bones.”

McCoy was slumped on the floor, under his desk. Unsurprisingly, he clutched a bottle firmly to his chest.

“Off, damn it! Lice, uh, lights fuckin’ off, stupid room!”

The natural language processor was not able to make heads or tails of that request, so Kirk helped out. “Lights, ten percent.”

While Jim’s eyes were adjusting to the dim light, he heard the gurgle of a bottle being lifted and drunk from.

“She turned six, Jim.”

All became clear. “It was Joanna’s birthday?”

“And I tried, Jim. I tried the whole damned day.”

Okay, not so clear. Jim joined Bones on the floor, leaning his back up against the bed to face his friend under the desk.

“What did you try, Bones?”

Another gurgle, and a hard swallow.

“I called all day. From here, on my communicator, from the office—you name it, I tried it.”

“And nobody answered?” Jim speculated.

Bones laughed hollowly. “Worse ‘n that. Way worse.” He passed the bottle to Jim. “Here, you have a drink too, and I’ll tell ya.”

Jim cooperated, had a swig of the bourbon, and passed it back to Bones, who was looking like he really didn’t need any more.

“‘Communication not accepted from this number.’ Every god damned time, Jim. She locked me out. She locked everybody out except people in her contacts list.” A gurgle, and a swallow. Jim found the bottle back in his own hands again.

“Which you’re not on.” Jim took a drink, too, to quell the anger boiling up inside him on behalf of his friend.

“Which I’m not on. Special for today.”

“That’s a bitch of a thing, Bones.”

“And you know what the worst of it is?” McCoy choked back a sob. “I keep picturing my baby girl, asking her mama why Daddy’s not callin’ for her birthday.”

“Fuck.” Jim took another drink. “Using her own kid as a weapon.”

“Jocelyn can do whatever she wants to me, Jim, and I don’t give a flyin’ fuck. But not this, Jim. Not this.”

James Kirk watched, helplessly, as his best friend dissolved in silent tears. McCoy’s shoulders shook, and his hands came up to cover his face.

“Damn her, Bones. Damn her to fucking hell for doing this to you.”

Jim crawled under the desk, and pulled McCoy into his arms. Becoming enfolded seemed to be tacit permission for McCoy to open the floodgates, so he poured out a day’s worth—perhaps a year’s worth—of repressed sobs, all over the front of his best friend’s glaringly red cadet uniform.

After a while, the sobs settled to whimpers, and finally became sniffles. McCoy swiped drunkenly, angrily, at his face, and tried to push Jim away.

“Uh-uh, Bones. I gotcha.”

“C’mon, leggo. Never did throw up on you, did I, darlin’? Best not to start now.”

Jim blinked at the unexpected term of endearment. From anyone else, that word might have felt patronizing, or demeaning, or sickly sweet, or … just plain weird. But from Bones? Even a completely drunk-under-the-desk Bones? It was … nice.

McCoy started crawling out from under the desk—this time, Kirk, still caught up in pondering the term “darlin’” and its unexpected effects on him, let him go. Jim watched, dumbly, as McCoy staggered to his feet and tried to make his way to the bathroom.

“Who the fuck put _that_ there?” McCoy cursed, as he ran into the bed.

Jim took a cue, and stood up to help Bones make it to the bathroom unscathed. “C’mon, Bones. Looks like you need a navigator.” He grabbed McCoy’s arm, and threw it over his own shoulder, half-carrying and half-dragging McCoy around the bed, into the bathroom.

“Jus’ in time, Jim,” said McCoy, as he dropped to his knees and ejected vast quantities of alcohol and acid into the waiting commode. Jim held him up by the shoulders, partly so McCoy wouldn’t fall in, and partly so Jim could feel like maybe, just maybe, he was helping. McCoy retched again, cutting off the curse he’d started to utter.

When it seemed that McCoy was finished with the task at hand, Jim grabbed McCoy’s toothbrushing cup from the sink, filled it with water, and handed it down. McCoy rinsed and spat, and handed the cup back. “Thangsh,” he slurred. “Think I’m done.”

Jim flushed and closed the toilet, and then handed down a cool washcloth, which Bones swiped across his face and dropped on the floor. He then laid his head down on the closed lid of the toilet.

“No you don’t, Bones. C’mon, up you get.” Jim grabbed Bones under the arms, and hauled him to his feet. Barely. “Holy crap, Bones.”

“Hah. Outweigh you by twenny, kid.”

Jim staggered under his burden, and finally flopped McCoy unceremoniously onto the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed as he loosened McCoy’s collar, pulled off his boots, and rolled him on his side.

“Shorry, Jhim. Shorry you hadda take care of a drunk ol’ man.”

Jim snorted. “You’re not old. Drunk? Definitely. Old? Nah. Plus, how many times have I come home worse than this? Puking _and_ bleeding. You always patch me up good, Bones. Only fair I get to take care of you every so often.” _Get_ _to_. _Where did_ that _come from_?

“Maybe tomorrow,” McCoy muttered. “Maybe I can talk to her tomorrow.”

“Sure, Bones. And ya know what? If she’s still blocking calls from people outside her address book, I bet Uhura could hack a call through for you.”

“Cross that bridge when we come to it.” Eyes already closed, McCoy flung a hand out, seemingly randomly, but managed to grab and squeeze one of Kirk’s hands. “Thanksh.”

Jim squeezed back. “Welcome.” And he watched, as his best friend passed out once and for all. And he sat there, just watching, not moving, until finally the grip on his hand slackened, and McCoy’s arm fell over the edge of the bed.

Jim carefully picked up that arm, and tucked it into the curled-up body. He knelt next to the bed, smoothed the doctor’s hair off his forehead, and, before he realized what he was doing, leaned over and kissed his friend gently on the lips. “G’night, Bones,” he whispered. “Tomorrow’s another day.”


	5. Orange juice (shots) (5-year mission, month 1).

The communicator chirped on the nightstand. “Kirk to McCoy.”

McCoy rolled over and looked at the time display on his communicator. 0225. “Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick.” He rolled over again and put a pillow over his head.

The communicator chirped insistently. “Bones, c’mon.” Panting sounds. “Pick up.” A wheeze? “Shit, Bones … I’m in … trouble here.” Definitely wheezing. McCoy sat up straight in bed and grabbed the communicator.

“Jim? What’s wrong?”

More panting and wheezing. “Can’t breathe.”

McCoy left the channel open as he threw on some pants and grabbed his kit. “Be right there.” He flew out the door, took a hard left, and entered his medical override on Kirk’s door.

Jim was sitting on the side of his bed, in a t-shirt and boxers, hands on his knees, and breathing hard, once a second, wheezing every other breath. His blue eyes flashed brightly with sheer panic.

McCoy ran his tricorder quickly up and down. “Not an allergic reaction for once; epi-chip would’ve taken care of that anyhow … no infection … huh … hypocapnia, vasoconstriction? Jim, you’re hyperventilating—gotta slow down your breathing.”

Kirk shook his head as McCoy rummaged in his kit. “Can’t catch … my breath. Getting … lightheaded.”

“I know, I know that’s what it feels like. Trust me?” he asked.

Jim nodded.

“Gonna put a bag over your face—breathe into it.”

McCoy held a paper bag over the young captain’s nose and mouth. Jim’s hands flew up to the bag, and grabbed onto McCoy’s hands to help hold it there, as if it were carrying the oxygen that he felt, however incorrectly, that he desperately needed.

Gradually, the bag crumpled and refilled more slowly and regularly, and the panicked look started fading from Jim’s eyes.

“Better?” McCoy asked gently.

Jim nodded.

“Okay. I’m gonna take the bag off. See if you can keep breathing nice and slow for me.”

McCoy lowered the bag, but Jim’s hand still clutched his. Jim took a few slow, deep breaths, and then realized what he was doing and let go of the doctor’s hand.

“The fuck was _that_?” Jim asked, in a tone that was nearly normal for him.

“You hyperventilated yourself, Jim,” McCoy said neutrally, scanning him again quickly with the tricorder.

“No way, Bones! I couldn’t catch my breath—couldn’t feel my hands or feet—I was sure I was asphyxiating!”

“Well, that’s what it can feel like. When you hyperventilate, you blow off all your carbon dioxide, and that makes your blood vessels constrict, so your brain thinks it’s not getting enough oxygen, so you breath harder and faster, and voila! Vicious cycle.” McCoy finally took a seat on a chair across from Kirk’s bed.

“Oh,” Jim said quietly.

McCoy inspected his friend and captain—just with eyes, no tricorder. “You ever had a panic attack like that before?”

Jim scrubbed a hand over his face, and looked down at his feet. “So that was, uh, a panic attack?”

“Pretty much seems like it. There was no medical cause for your hyperventilation, and everything’s normal now. Except your blood sugar’s a little low.” He went over to the tiny fridge, and brought out a bottle of orange juice.

“Don’t s’pose you have any glasses, do you?”

Jim pointed at a pair of shot glasses on the table. “Just our favorites, there.”

“All right, c’mon over here. We’ll do O.J. shots. Doctor’s orders.” He pointed to the chair on the other side of the table.

“Jesus, Bones. A frickin’ panic attack? Why now?” Jim asked as he shifted to the table, probably meaning for the question to be rhetorical. “I mean, fuck, Bones. I’m trying to do things right for a change—be responsible.”

“You thinking about the first contact mission tomorrow?” McCoy asked neutrally. He poured out two shots of juice, feeling slightly ridiculous.

“Of _course_ I am. Hell, Bones, it’s the first real mission we’ve been assigned. Sure, in our first month we’ve done plenty of good stuff out here,” Jim waved his hand vaguely towards the exterior bulkhead, “but this is the first honest-to-god _mission_ that Starfleet has assigned us on purpose!” He knocked back his O.J. shot.

“And when you say ‘be responsible,’ do you by any chance mean ‘not drink yourself into oblivion when you’re stressed out?’” McCoy took his shot, and poured out two more.

“That smacks of the pot calling the kettle black, by the way, but yeah, pretty much.”

“Oh, believe me,” replied McCoy, “this pot knows perfectly well it’s plenty blackened. You know me—self-medication is my specialty, bourbon is my drug.”

“Shit.” Jim sighed. “I guess maybe I picked the wrong time to stop drinking so much.”

“No such time,” McCoy said. “It’s a good plan, Jim. But I think maybe we need to talk about other ways for you to manage your stress.”

“Great,” said Jim. “All my usual options are out the window. Shouldn’t drink so much now, right?”

McCoy shook his head. “You and me both. Cheers.” They knocked back their shots.

“Can’t sleep with anyone under me in the chain of command, which is pretty much everyone on this ship, so there goes a good one.”

“True,” replied McCoy.

“And, well, I don’t think you’d appreciate me getting in fights all the time, though that usually worked pretty well on the stress.”

“No, I wouldn’t, plus, you can’t fight with the same people you can’t screw.”

“Oh, yeah. That too. Plus I was usually drunk when I got in all those fights anyhow, so who knows whether it was the booze or the fighting that was _really_ getting rid of the stress.”

“Good point, Jim.”

They sat there silently for a minute—Kirk, not knowing what came next, and McCoy, waiting for what he knew was next.

And then Kirk had a sudden verbal explosion. “Are they completely insane? Putting _me_ in charge of a starship, and a crew of over four hundred?”

“You’re meant for this. You’re a genius. You’re a natural leader,” McCoy said mildly. “Hell, I _hate_ space, and you got me out here, didn’t you?”

“Well, maybe I should just go back to being the only genius-level repeat offender in Iowa,” Jim practically yelled, “because I don’t think I can do this, Bones!”

McCoy silently poured out two more shots. Kirk continued to pour out his anxieties.

“I’m scared shitless. What does that say about me? Hell, Bones; you _work_ for me now—how do you like having to put a paper bag over your Captain’s face because he had a panic attack and hyperventilated? How do you like _that_?”

“I like it a lot better than I would if you were thinkin’ you’re some hotshot who can do no wrong, and struttin’ around the ship like a rooster with a flock of hens to do with as he pleases.”

Jim knocked back another shot of orange juice. “I don’t _strut_.”

“You strut. In fact, I keep waiting for you to say cock-a-doodle-doo.”

“I don’t _strut_. And that was just an excuse to say ‘cock.’”

“Okay, you don’t _usually_ strut. Most of the time you stride. But _sometimes_ you strut.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bones, that’s not what we’re talking about. This is serious. Serious. I mean, lookit me. I’m never gonna get to sleep tonight, not after all this, and then I’ll blow the mission tomorrow, and—”

“You’re not gonna blow the mission. You’re ready for this. And we’re not even due into the system until 1600 tomorrow, right?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Jim said irritably.

“What it has to do with anything is that I’m taking you off duty until 1200 tomorrow, so you can get well rested, and be in top form for the mission. Which isn’t even scheduled to start until after 2300 tomorrow, am I right?” McCoy started thumbing the orders into his communicator to send to the ship’s scheduling system.

“Off duty? Off _duty_?! Bones, you can’t _do_ that! I mean, you _can_ , but shit!”

“Think about it, Jim. Do you want to go into first contact rested, or wrecked? Pick one.” McCoy pressed “send,” and the orders were in. He heard Kirk’s communicator chirp, immediately signaling the change in schedule.

“All right, all right. But if I’m the rooster, guess who’s mother hen?”

McCoy let loose one of his rare laughs that wasn’t tinged with sarcasm. “That’s _Doctor_ Mother Hen to you.”

“And Captain Rooster to you. Or maybe Captain Cock. That’s got a nice ring to it, dontcha think?”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Infant.”

“Curmudgeon.”

“Hyperactive whiz-kid.”

“Stick-in-the-mud.”

They each downed one more shot of orange juice, and sat in companionable silence. “Jim, we do have to talk about stress. I know, not now. After the first contact mission is over.”

“Okay.” Jim sighed. “All very well and good to let me sleep till noon, but that only works if I can actually get to sleep. Fuck, it’s already 0300, and I’m bouncing off the walls. Almost like I’m so tired I can’t sleep.”

“Trust me again, Jim?” McCoy said seriously.

“Always, Bones. You know that. But I _do_ wonder what you’re gonna do to me this time if you’re asking me that again.”

McCoy sifted through his kit, got out a bottle, and shook out a single tablet. “Sleeping pill. Just for tonight, okay? It’ll work better than booze, plus no hangover, and no, you won’t get ‘hooked,’ all right?” He slid the pill across the table. “I’m not gonna hypo you in the neck with a sedative; this is totally voluntary. But take it. Please.”

Kirk looked at the tiny white tablet, and looked at his best friend. “Okay. On one condition.”

“I hesitate to ask, but name it.”

“You do O.J. shots with me till it kicks in, okay? Make sure I really go to sleep, and don’t go all nuts again?”

“I’ll even tuck you in.” McCoy filled the shot glasses again.

Kirk put the pill on the back of his tongue. “Cheers,” he said, and swallowed the pill down with a shot. “How long do these things take?”

“Empty stomach, three a.m., I’ll say ten minutes.”

Kirk drummed his fingers on the table and fidgeted. “Bones, you really think I can do this? I mean, be the Captain?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Not what I meant—you were already assigned to the Enterprise with Pike, so you kind of came with the ship.”

“No, I didn’t.” McCoy looked at Kirk oddly. “You seriously don’t know this?”

“Know what?”

“They _asked_ me, Jim. Starfleet Command asked me. They knew we were good friends, they knew we were roommates for three years—they _asked_ me if I wanted to be your CMO.”

“I requested you. After they gave me the ship, I requested you.”

“Jim, I had seven other offers from Command. _Seven_. They didn’t _order_ me onto this ship. I had a _choice_. All very un-military, if you ask me, but I wasn’t complainin’.”

“Oh,” Kirk said in a tiny voice. “Thanks.”

“And you know what, Jim? It wasn’t because you’re my best friend. It wasn’t because you kept me going when I thought I would quit, held me together when I thought I would fall apart. It was because of all the captains on all the ships that I could choose from, you’re the one that I know will do big things, and will do them without getting us all killed. That’s why.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” McCoy looked at him again. “You seriously didn’t know that?”

“Nope.”

“I think you oughta look up everyone else’s personnel files, too. I’ll bet I’m not the only one who had other choices.”

“Noted,” Kirk said. His eyes were getting glassy. “Think I might be done with O.J shots, Bones.”

“Okay. You go, I dunno, brush your teeth or whatever.” McCoy made no move to leave.

“You’re seriously gonna tuck me in?” asked Jim, getting up from the table.

“Said I would, didn’t I?” McCoy glowered at him. “Now shoo.” He watched as Kirk disappeared into the bedroom on his way to the bathroom.

Jim used the toilet, washed up, brushed his teeth, and rubbed a hot washcloth over his face. He wobbled a bit as he headed back out to the bedroom area. He nearly fell on his face as he went back through to the living area.

“Whoa, bess.” McCoy caught Kirk by the shoulders. “March yourself right back in there, and lay yourself down before I have to carry you.” He spun the captain around, and helped him through the door. He retreated to the living area, and returned with a chair.

“Wha’s with the chair, Bones?” Jim was standing, swaying, by the side of the bed.

“Fer cryin’ out loud,” McCoy muttered, pulling back the covers and pointing at the bed. “Get in before you fall down.”

Jim obeyed, and Bones threw the covers over him and sat down in the chair.

“You gonna stay here all night? That’s nuts, Bones.”

“No, just makin’ sure you get to sleep all right. Then I’ll get outta your hair.”

“‘s okay, Bones. Kinda miss havin’ a roomie.” His eyelids were heavy, like bricks. Gravity overcame them, and the captain’s breathing became slow and even.

“Me too, darlin’,” McCoy whispered. “Me too.”

He sat in the chair for ten or fifteen minutes, watching for signs of wakefulness. Jim twitched once, but McCoy recognized this as a sign that his old roommate was actually falling into deep sleep. Finding no excuse to stay any longer, McCoy quietly carried the chair back into the living area and replaced it at the table. He returned to the bedroom—just to check once more, he told himself. He sat down slowly on the side of the bed, arranged the covers just so, and gently put his hand on the side of Jim’s face. “Told you I’d tuck you in, sweetheart. No harm in kissin’ you good night, is there?” And he gently, stealthily, silently, brushed his lips across Jim’s, just once. Somehow, it felt like he’d done this before, but he knew he hadn’t. And silently, he left the room, and walked back to his own quarters, to resume his own night’s sleep.


	6. +1: And one time they didn’t share the drink (bourbon, for a change) (5-year mission, month 6)

**+1:** And one time they didn’t share the drink (bourbon, for a change) (5-year mission, month 6).

McCoy exited the surgical suite, stripped off his pair of gloves, and threw them down the recycler. “All right, Spock. You’re up.” He ran his hands under the sterilization field, and re-gloved.

“Up?” inquired Spock. “I am neither higher nor lower relative to our shared frame of spatial reference than I was a moment ago, Doctor.”

“ _Next_ , Spock. You’re next in line to get patched up,” McCoy said, rolling his eyes. “Hop up here, and that’s an order.” He patted the biobed in front of him.

“Must I truly propel myself with a single foot, or may I—”

“Get on the damned bed however you want! Jesus, and I thought Jim gave me a hard time. But no, he was unconscious the whole time, and you’re wide awake and screamin’. No, I know you’re not really screamin’, so leave that retort right where it is.”

“May I inquire as to the Captain’s welfare, Doctor?”

“You may ask, and I’ll assume you just did, since I don’t want to get into the ‘who can take things most literally’ game with the grand champion. He’ll live,” McCoy said curtly. “He got a mighty whack on the head—a nasty concussion, which we still haven’t figured out how to fix with a gizmo or a gadget. But we _have_ figured out how to keep brains from swelling up when they get knocked around, so he won’t die like he might’ve a century ago.”

McCoy ran a scanner over Spock, just to make sure there were no injuries other than the visible surface lacerations and bruises. He got out a dermal regenerator that he’d set specially to Spock’s unique biology, and set to work.

“Is the Captain still unconscious?”

“Yep. He’ll likely be out for another few hours. I swear, I’m gonna start makin’ him wear a helmet every time he leaves the damned ship.” McCoy worked the regenerator slowly up a deep laceration on Spock’s forearm.

“I understand Ensign Daniels was not so fortunate.”

McCoy sighed. “No. His brain had been without oxygen for too long. The field treatment was perfectly correct—the cardiopulmonary stimulators kept him technically alive—but there was no way to repair the brain damage that had been done by the time you reached him.” He didn’t bother to add “I’m sorry.”

“The Captain will be very distressed by that outcome, even though it was not his fault. The attack was entirely unexpected, as well as illogical.”

“Yeah, Spock. I know he’s gonna take it hard.” McCoy sighed heavily.

“I surmise that you have assisted him previously, when crew members have died?”

“I do what I can,” McCoy said curtly. _Yeah, I hold him while he cries his eyes out, try to keep him from punching the bulkheads, fix up his hands when he does, and listen to him later while he composes a condolence transmission for the family. That’s what I can do._

“He has said he values your assistance in such matters.”

“Seriously?”

“Indeed. His exact words to me after Lieutenant Murphy’s funeral last month were, I believe, ‘It’s a good thing I have Bones to hold me together, Spock, or I’d be a total write-off.’ I am unfamiliar with the term ‘write-off,’ but I believe he meant—”

McCoy’s eyes misted over. “Yeah, Spock. I know what he meant. Thanks.”

“Doctor, may I make a personal request of you?”

McCoy looked up, startled. “Sure, Spock. What’s on your mind?”

“I believe it would be prudent, for Jim’s emotional welfare, if you were to be available when he awakens.”

“I was kinda plannin’ on it, Spock. But thanks for the reminder.”

“It would be no trouble to provide you with further reminders, should you—”

“No, it’s okay, Spock. I’ll make sure I’m there.”

“Do you have something in your eye, Doctor?”

~!~!~!~

Spock was the last of the away team requiring medical attention. Two hours after McCoy had finished with him, he had written his reports, and completed the death certificate for Ensign Daniels. He signed it electronically, and was about to forward it on to Jim’s mailbox, when he decided to wait until later. Jim might not even remember the mission, and checking his mailbox would likely be one of the first things he did after he awoke. Whenever that might be.

 _Time to check on my patient,_ McCoy thought. He shut down his workstation, and closed and locked his office. His shift had technically ended six hours ago, but everybody knew that when the captain was injured, McCoy was the one to work on him. Period.

McCoy entered the patient ward area of sickbay, and went straight to the single occupied bed. He tapped on the screen at the foot of the bed, and entered his password to open the chart. Which would have been about six inches thick, McCoy reflected, if they still used paper for these things. He frowned at the most recent nursing entry, from fifteen minutes ago. No change in level of consciousness.

“Jim?” McCoy said right next to Kirk’s ear. Nothing. He rubbed Kirk’s sternum with his knuckles, hard. Kirk opened his eyes briefly, looking at nothing, pulled his arms in towards his chest, and mumbled, but then went limp again. McCoy sighed. “C’mon, kid. Gimme somethin’ here. It’s been four hours since you got knocked out—time to wake up and smell the coffee.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the bed, staring down at the unconscious occupant. “Fine. Guess I’ll have to be patient with you, just like always. I’ll be back in a little while.”

McCoy exited the ward area, and stopped at the on-call desk. “Geoff, I’m outta here for a bit. Call me if anything changes, all right? I’ll be back in an hour or two, otherwise.”

“Got it, Len. Wish you would just take the night off.”

“Yeah, right. See you in a while.” He turned to go, but reconsidered. “Geoff—if he wakes up, don’t tell him about Daniels, okay? I mean, unless he asks directly. I’ll tell him.”

“Sure, Len. But if he asks, I’m not gonna lie.”

“I know.” McCoy sighed. “Thanks, man. See ya.”

“Later, Len.” M’Benga returned to the journal he was reading on his padd.

McCoy took the turbolift up to the deck his quarters were on, and let himself into his rooms. He ordered up food from the mess—rank had its privileges, after all—and settled for a sonic shower, since he didn’t have _that_ much rank. He had just gotten dressed in his favorite jeans and an academy t-shirt when the door chimed and a young yeoman brought his meal in.

“Thanks, uh …” he realized he didn’t know the young man’s name.

“Brill. Kevin Brill. Have a good night, Doctor. And—”the young man hesitated— “I hope the captain is better soon. Thanks for looking after him.”

“Well, I figure I oughta keep him alive, so I can kill him myself when he wakes up.” McCoy looked at the young man. “Bet _he_ knows your name.”

Brill laughed. “He knows everyone’s name, sir. All four hundred and thirty one of us.”

McCoy looked down. “Four hundred and thirty, son. Four hundred and thirty.”

Brill paled. “Yessir. Daniels. Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it. You know when the funeral is?”

“Tomorrow, sir. Will—um, will the captain be able to be there?”

“Don’t know. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure Mr. Spock isn’t in charge.” He paused. “And you didn’t hear me say that, did you, son.”

“Say what, sir?” The yeoman looked like he wanted to flee, so McCoy sent him on his way.

“Thanks, Brill. Have a good night.” He shut the door, and plunked the tray down on his small table. He didn’t really feel like eating the soup and sandwich, but did it anyhow. He chased it with a glass of water, but quickly realized that was not really the liquid he was craving.

“So much for not drowning our sorrows, huh, Jim.” McCoy said, as he pulled out his medium-favorite bourbon and poured himself a generous slug. “Hopefully neither one of us will end this day with too many neurons killed.”

McCoy tried to distract himself for an hour or so, continuing to hit the bourbon regularly. He tried reading the book Jim had lent him, but found he was just staring at page 53 for minutes at a time. He played back his last recording from Joanna—that truly did distract him for the ten minutes it lasted. He did his best to look over an article he was supposed to be reviewing for a journal, until he finally gave up.

“Fuck this bullshit.” He yanked open a drawer, pulled out a metal flask, and filled it from the bottle, somewhat unsteadily. He jammed the flask in his back pocket, and exited his quarters. “Not a single goddamned slammable door on this whole ship,” he muttered. He made it to sickbay on autopilot, and stumbled slightly as he entered sickbay.

M’Benga looked up sharply. “Len, come on. It’s only been ninety minutes since you left. Take a break.”

“I did take a break. And now I’m taking a break from my break, all right? And look—civvies. Not plannin’ on doin’ any medicine, just a visitor.”

“Good thing, too. You know, I really shouldn’t let you in here like this.”

“Yeah, well. Here I am anyhow,” McCoy grumbled.

“Go on,” M’Benga sighed. “And try not to let me see you actually drinking, all right? Or doing anything else I wouldn’t want to see.”

“Discretion is my middle name,” said McCoy, as he headed to the ward. He didn’t, and wasn’t supposed to, notice M’Benga shaking his head at him.

Jim was as still as ever. McCoy dragged a chair over to the side of his bed, and parked himself there for what he hoped wasn’t going to be the long term. He pulled the flask out of his pocket, and took a sip. On a whim, he held the open neck of the flask right under Jim’s nose. He was rewarded with a grimace. “Hah. Your brain’s smarter about some things when it’s not quite conscious, isn’t it.”

He put the flask back in his pocket, and entered his password in the chart again. Nobody had done a neuro check in the last hour; he decided to give it another go.

“Jim!” he said loudly, right by the captain’s ear. “C’mon, darlin’,” he said quietly. “Jim! Open up those baby blues for me.”

And slowly, Jim opened his eyes. He squinted up at McCoy, muttered something incomprehensible, and closed his eyes again.

“Well, all right!” McCoy said. He caught himself before entering anything in the chart, realizing he was in no state to be writing medical records.

“Hey, Geoff? Come on back for a sec, will ya?”

M’Benga appeared at Kirk’s bedside. “What’s going on, Len?”

“He opened his eyes when I said his name, and gave me a good mumble.”

M’Benga smiled. “Well, that’s some progress.” He bent down to the captain’s ear. “Captain Kirk? Can you open up your eyes?”

He got nothing.

“Yeah, well, watch this,” said McCoy. “Jim? C’mon, darlin’, open up those eyes for me.”

M’Benga raised his eyebrows.

Kirk opened his eyes, but didn’t seem to be focusing on anything.

Dr. M’Benga immediately jumped in. “Captain, can you tell me your full name?”

Kirk’s eyes shifted over to M’Benga, and drifted closed again.

“C’mon, Jim. Open ‘em up,” pleaded McCoy.

The blue eyes opened once more for McCoy’s voice.

“Attaboy, Jim. C’mon, tell us your whole name, all right?”

“Bones?”

“Yeah, Jim, I’m here. Do you remember what I asked you?”

“James T. Kirk. Fuck, Bones. Headache.” He closed his eyes again.

“All right, you rest. We’ll take care of that headache,” said McCoy. “Geoff, I’m in no shape to, uh, would you mind?”

M’Benga rolled his eyes. “Considering _I’m_ on duty, and _you’re_ supposed to be asleep in your quarters, no, I certainly would _not_ mind.” He shot the contents of a hypospray into the hypo port on Kirk’s IV, and made a note in the chart. “Looks a lot better, Len. You think you can go home now?”

“Nope. You saw—he only opened his eyes when I talked to ‘im. And I’d bet you a case of Knob Creek that he has no idea what happened. So, no, I don’t think I can go home now, Geoff. If you kick me out, I’ll have to leave, but I’m kinda hopin’ maybe you won’t do that.”

M’Benga softened. “No, of course not. I’d let anyone else’s best friend stay as long as they behaved, so why not you? Just try to … keep that flask in your pocket.”

“I’ll do better than that.” McCoy pulled the flask out of his pocket and handed it to M’Benga. “I think I’m done with that for today.”

“Good. But: no practicing medicine for the rest of the night, all right? I’ll do the neuro checks, and I’ll do the charting.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just set with him for a bit.”

“That’s fine, Len. I’ll leave you to it, then.” And M’Benga left the room. So, he didn’t see McCoy take Jim’s hand, and twine their fingers together. And he didn’t see Jim’s eyes open again, just for a minute, settle on McCoy, and then close again, this time without the furrow in his brow. He didn’t see Kirk squeezing back on McCoy’s hand, and didn’t see the tiny smile appear on Kirk’s face when McCoy’s other hand stroked the hair off Jim’s forehead. He didn’t see McCoy struggling, one handed, to arrange the chair at Kirk’s bedside in a way that made it possible for him to put his head down right next to Jim’s.

And, two hours later, nobody at all saw Jim open his eyes on his own, look at the head laid awkwardly next to his own. Nobody saw him carefully roll over on his side, stretching the IV tubing just so, to take McCoy’s hand between his own, and curl up, holding his captured prize against his heart like a favorite stuffed animal. And nobody saw Jim touch his forehead to McCoy’s, close his eyes, and fall back to sleep.


End file.
